


Good Fortune

by heyginger



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Holidays, M/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 15:44:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17246936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyginger/pseuds/heyginger
Summary: Joe starts acting squirrely on New Year’s Eve, but Patrick doesn’t notice it then.A short, fluffy holiday fic.





	Good Fortune

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosiedoesfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosiedoesfic/gifts).



> For [rosiedoesfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosiedoesfic/pseuds/rosiedoesfic).
> 
> Thank you for all the laughs, squeeing, friendship, beta work, and support this year! You're the best!

Joe starts acting squirrely on New Year’s Eve, but Patrick doesn’t notice it then.

They don’t go out.  Pete is having a party.  So is Bob McLynn and Patrick’s Aunt Marcia and that’s not counting the publicity events, or the invites from Joe’s friends and family.  But Patrick and Joe are, in Pete’s words, “lame”--Patrick thinks it’s romantic.  They’re staying in their own house, dressing up nicely, and eating take-out Chinese in their own kitchen.  Then promptly undressing, one way or another.

It might be their anniversary; there’s some dissention about that.  Their first date was on January 3rd, three years ago.  But their first _kiss_ \--that was on New Year’s Eve in an airport Hilton in Minneapolis.  They’d been on their way to meet Pete and Andy in New York for a label party when freezing rain iced up the runways.  After watching the bulk of the storm bear down on them on Weather Channel radar, Joe had suggested that they might as well celebrate anyway and pulled out his suit.  Patrick had slid there and back across the parking lot to Mrs. Chen’s Hong Kong Express in the strip mall next door for dumplings and spicy eggplant.  The hotel provided champagne, first in the minibar and then through room service.

At midnight, they’d kissed.

“Happy Anniversary,” Joe says now, pulling styrofoam containers out of a plastic bag with their receipt stapled to the top. He sets them in the middle of their candlelit dining room table with a flourish.

Patrick tries to calculate in his head.  “Happy Anniversary Eve Eve...Eve,” he finally settles on.  Then he ticks it off on his fingers to be sure.

“I kissed you on New Year’s Eve; you kissed me back.  It’s our anniversary.”

“As I recall, I asked you out at the end of that night, and you said yes.  And I took you to dinner and a movie three days later and _that_ was our first date.  You don’t count anniversaries from when the person _agreed_ to do the thing; you count them from when you _do_ the thing.  Nobody’s wedding anniversary is the date that they proposed-- _even though_ they probably kissed.”

Patrick is adjusting his bowtie in the mirror over the sideboard, and he can see Joe’s reflection, arranging their silverware, over the reflection of his own shoulder.

Joe harrumphs, but Patrick can see that he’s grinning down at the tablecloth.

“We can just have two,” Joe says.

It’s a familiar second leg of the familiar argument, and now Patrick’s grinning, too.  “You can’t have two anniversaries.  _Anniversary_ means once per _annus_.  Only greedy people have two anniversaries.”

Joe snorts, grinning all sharklike.  Patrick shakes his head and tries to sound stern, but he’s laughing.  “Don’t--”

Joe does anyway, of course.  “Well then, when it comes to your _annus_ , I guess I’m just greedy.”  He slides up behind Patrick, wraps his arms around him and buries his face in Patrick’s neck.  

All Patrick can see in the mirror is the cloud of Joe’s hair but he can feel his mouth hot and wet, just above his shirt collar.  He rests his hands on Joe’s forearms, tight around his waist.  “Come on, greedy,” he says fondly, “let’s eat.  I’ll let you feed me dumplings.”

The food is mediocre, but that’s part of the tradition.  Joe tries to feed Patrick dumplings but his chopstick skills are shaky and he just drips chili oil and soy sauce across the tablecloth between them.

“I _did too_ make the first move,” Joe says later, when Patrick’s belly is full.  “I mean--you _wanted_ it.  You kept licking your lips and...staring at mine.  But _I_ manned up first.”

Patrick raises an eyebrow and spears the last of his eggplant with one chopstick.  “Hmmm,” he says, tilting his head pensively, “that’s not the way I remember it.”  He pops the greasy bite into his mouth.

It’s _totally_ the way Patrick remembers it, but arguing about the details of that champagne-blurry night is also part of the tradition.  It’s become a kind of teasing one-upsmanship...who seduced whom, who wanted it more, who blinked first.

“Okay, _sure_.  How do you remember it, then?  I suppose in your imaginary version, you kissed me?”

Patrick carefully slides his plate back.  They’re straddling the corner of the table, Joe next to him instead of across, Joe’s right knee an inch from his left.

“Nooo,” he says.  “No...you’re right; you kissed me.  But, first I touched your leg.”  He does it now, palming the fabric stretched tight across Joe’s thigh and then sliding a little bit higher, teasing.  “And I leaned close to you.”  He does that, too, watching Joe mirror him instinctively.  “And you’re right, I did lick my lips.”  He bites his bottom lip, too, for good measure, letting it slide through his teeth, leaving his mouth damp, lips parted.  “And then you kissed me…” Patrick shifts his gaze back and forth between Joe’s blown pupils and his mouth, just like he had that night.  “Just like I knew you would.”

It’s a bluff--he hadn’t known, that night.  It hadn’t been that calculated, but it is now, and Joe acquiesces.  One hand comes up to the side of Patrick’s neck, holding him in place, and he chases Patrick’s lip-bite with one of his own and Patrick shivers when Joe deepens it from there.

It’s just as thrilling as it was that first time--less shaky excitement and more of a promise.  Now Patrick knows what comes with the intensity behind this kiss--what these same kisses will feel like in the dark, when Joe’s on top of him, when he’s on top of Joe.  The way they’ll feel when they’re faster and harder, interrupted by gasps against his mouth, his chin.  The way Joe is going to groan into it and Patrick will chuckle a little, breathily, because he knows how to cause that now and it delights him--is going to delight him in a few minutes because it’s time to take their fancy clothes off.  

When Joe pulls back, pushes at Patrick’s chest slightly, he’s sure it’s so they can move the bedroom and he slides his chair back, ready to drag or be dragged, and then Joe says, “Wait--wait.  We haven’t done the fortune cookies yet.”

It’s such a non sequitur that it doesn’t register at first; Patrick’s on his feet before he thinks to say, “What?”

“The fortune...cookies…”  Joe trails off as Patrick undoes his bowtie, backing toward the staircase.  His shirt is rumpled and he’s flushed, hair a mess, and Patrick leaves the fabric hanging around his neck and starts in on the top button of his dress shirt.

Joe clears his throat.  “Don’t you want dessert?” he asks weakly.

“I do,” Patrick says, quirking an eyebrow.  “So come on.”

Joe comes.

New Year’s Day passes normally.  They put football on the television to justify queso and salsa and wings.  Call their parents to pass along good wishes for the new year.  Pass out early in a food coma.

On the second, Patrick’s banging around in the kitchen at three in the afternoon and Joe comes in with the mail.

“Anything good?”

“Bills.”  Joe throws the stack on the counter and swipes at his forehead.  “I’m gonna grab a shower.”  He’s grimy and a little bit sweaty on account of it being New Year’s Cleaning Day--Patrick’s given up arguing that that’s not really a _thing_ , and anyway, the garage had desperately needed reorganizing.

“Oh hey,” Patrick calls down the hallway after him, “Do you know where those shortbread cookies are?”

It’s silent for a moment, and then Joe’s head pops back into the doorway.  “Huh?”

“The cookies.  I want some with my tea and I know I just bought a package.”

“Uhhh…” Joe shuffles into the room, shrugging.  “I think they’re gone?”

“You ate them already?  Dude…”

“I had a midnight craving.”

Patrick raises one eyebrow.  “You don’t even like them.”

“Uh...midnight…” he shrugs again.  “It’s a...weird time.”  He tilts his palms to the ceiling like he’s at a loss.  “I think those fortune cookies are still in the dining room, though.”  He offers it helpfully, like stale fortune cookies at all compensate for the loss of a whole pack of the really good, buttery shortbread kind.  “Do you want…?”

“No,” Patrick sighs, annoyed.  The shortbreads are reserved for his tea.  Joe _knows_ this.  “No.  I think there are some gingerbread ones in the studio.”

“Oh.”  Joe blinks.  He’s still in the doorway, blocking it, and he doesn’t move even when it becomes obvious that he’s blocking Patrick’s egress.

“Weren’t you gonna shower?”

That finally gets him to back up.  “Yeah,” he says, shaking his head like he was in a daze.  “Shower, yes.”

Patrick might be imagining it, but it almost looks like Joe sulks his way up the stairs.

On the third--their _other_ anniversary--they go out.  Patrick always plans it, just like he did for their first date.  Someplace casual, since they’ve already done the suits and ties, and this year he’s picked a wood fired pizza place on Wilshire.

Joe’s been quiet all day--not so much that it’s alarming but, on the drive over, he didn’t laugh at Patrick’s recounting of Pete’s attempt to kiss Dax Shepard at midnight, and then he didn’t even snort derisively at the hipster Edison bulbs in the pizza place.  And for some reason, he’d insisted on wearing a denim jacket, despite the fact that it’s 68 degrees.

The pizza gets him talking, at least--he’s, like, a secret foodie who doesn’t care to get the lingo right and Patrick giggles while he asks the waiter for extra umami on their pizza.

“No, no,” he says earnestly to the guy who’s clearing their plates at the end of the meal, “I know that the _mozzarella_ is artisanal.  But what I’m saying is--is the milk that’s used to _make_ the mozzarella artisanal?”

The kid assures him earnestly that it is, and Patrick kicks Joe’s ankle under the table.

“Don’t make fun of the waitstaff.”

“I’m not making fun,” Joe protests.  “It’s genuine question.  Can a cow be an artisan?”

Patrick chooses not to go down that conversational rabbit hole, instead reaching for his glass and the last sip of Syrah.

“Happy Anniversary,” he says softly, holding it up.

“Happy Anniversary.”  Joe doesn’t bother to argue the details this time, just clinks his still-full glass against Patrick’s and smiles softly.

Then he drains it, all in two huge gulps, and thuds it back down on the reclaimed wood tabletop with a loud clink.

Patrick’s glass is hanging, paused halfway to his own mouth, and he just blinks at Joe.

Before he can ask what’s up, because that pretty much settles it and something is definitely up, Joe asks, “Do you want dessert?”

“Um,” Patrick says, still a bit thrown by the wine guzzling, “I’m pretty full.”

“We’re having dessert.”  Joe’s mouth is set in a determined line.

“Uh…” Patrick thinks about arguing, but Joe’s eyes narrow.  He changes course.  “Okay...I think they’re supposed to have good tiramisu…?  I’ll just--”

He turns to flag the waiter, but before he can, one of Joe’s hands is on his wrist, stopping him.  The other is pulling something out of the pocket of his denim jacket and setting it on the table between them: one fortune cookie in a crumpled plastic pouch.

“What-- _what_?”

“You’re eating the fortune cookie, Patrick.”

It’s so frankly bizarre that Patrick says the first thing that pops into his mind, which is, “But we just had _Italian_.”

“I don’t care,” Joe says, looking slightly demented around the eyes.  “Just--eat the freaking cookie. I can’t stand waiting for you to eat it; I can’t throw it away because that’s gotta be bad luck.  Just-- _please_.”

Patrick’s brain is desperately trying to make sense of this--the puzzle pieces of Joe’s expression, the cookie on the table--but it’s just sort of...stuck.  On the bizarreness, maybe.  Or maybe, maybe there’s a thought at the very edges, pushing in--something he doesn’t want to look at directly in case it’s not what he thinks.  In case he’s wrong.  It makes his breath catch and his hair stand on end, though--just the hint of possibility.

His hands are shaking when he picks up the fortune cookie.

The stupid plastic won’t open at first, slippery between Patrick’s dumb fingers.  Then he gets it all of a sudden, and it tears.  The cookie breaks easily, yielding a little slip of paper.  Before he reads it, he looks up at Joe’s face.

Joe looks terrified; Patrick’s not sure he’s breathing.  At the sight, his nerves flee as quickly as they came on and he reaches for Joe’s hand, smiling, and squeezes as he unfolds his fortune.

_Marry me?_

It’s written in Joe’s messy scrawl, not typed: sprawling “M”, crooked little “r”s.  It’s giving Patrick an asthma attack or something--his chest is tight and his eyes are watery; he can’t get enough air to speak, for a moment.  He squeezes Joe’s hand again, though, really tight this time.

It must be reassuring, because Joe exhales like a deflating balloon and even though Patrick hasn’t taken his eyes off the tiny slip of paper, he can see Joe’s shoulders relax in his peripheral vision.

After another moment, Joe clears his throat.  “You do have to actually answer, dude.”  His voice is soft, cautiously happy, and Patrick wants to remove the caution--because he knows how to do that now and it delights him.  He finally drags his eyes off of the little slip of paper so he can watch.

“Yes.”

The world stops.  Joe’s looking at him the way he did when Patrick asked him out three years ago--like _he’s_ the one who just opened a really amazing gift--and now Patrick is the one who’s not breathing.  Then Joe’s lips twitch up at the corners, and Patrick’s do, too.

“Okay,” Joe finally says, matter-of-factly, but he’s grinning like a goofball and he raises their clasped hands to kiss Patrick’s thumb.  Patrick grins back, just as goofy.  “I didn’t know if you’d want a ring now, or like, if you’d rather wait for later.”

“Whatever.”  Patrick’s voice comes out dazed as his brain tries to jump from absorbing the enormity of an entire future where Joe is his _husband_ , years spinning out in his imagination, _decades_ together, to some dinky little decision about the jewelry.  He can’t do it, and he laughs.  “Whatever--I don’t care.  I’ll wear the fortune cookie, if that’s what you want.  I just...I love you.  And I really, really want to marry you.  We have all the time in the world for...details,” he finishes, but it’s more than details.  They have all the time in the world for _everything_.

“Yeah,” Joe says, ducking his head and looking up at Patrick almost shyly.  “Forever, right?”

Patrick nods, dazed.

“I love you, too,” Joe says, leaning across the table to brush his lips against Patrick’s.  It’s almost impossibly tender, the way he comes back twice, catching the corner of Patrick’s mouth, like he can’t bear to pull all the way away, and Patrick’s vision is getting blurry again, just a little.

Luckily, the awkward hipster waiter interrupts with their check before any tears actually fall in the restaurant, and if one or two leak out onto Joe’s shoulder later that night, in the dark, no one else will ever know.

In the car on the drive home, Patrick says, “So, I’m sorry to tell you, but I think this is officially our anniversary now.”

Joe laughs.  “Patrick, everyone knows that you don’t celebrate the anniversary of when you _propose_ the thing.  You celebrate the anniversary of when you _do_ the thing.”

Patrick huffs in response, but he’s still smiling.  Can’t wipe it off his face, actually.

A minute later, Joe nonchalantly adds, “I was thinking of a New Year’s Eve wedding, actually.”

“Oh, dude... _fuck_ ,” Patrick whines.

Joe just laughs and it sounds slightly smug--it’s a great idea, and he knows it, _knows_ Patrick is going to agree.  

That’s okay, though--Patrick is going to spend the rest of their lives telling people that Joe proposed to win an argument about the date of their anniversary.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm over on tumblr as [hey_ginger](https://hey-ginger.tumblr.com/) if you want to come say hi! I'm always looking for new FOB friends, and new blogs to follow!


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